By midnight, the blizzard had returned, rattling the heavy glass panes of the manor.
Aurelian sat rigidly at the writing desk, illuminated only by the flickering, dying amber glow of a single candelabra.
Scattered across the wood were imperial land registries and tax drafts from the capital—documents he had already read three times over, yet his mind refused to process a single line.
The room was perfectly silent, save for the scratching of his own tense breathing. Without Rowan to sort his thoughts or filter the white noise of the empire, the silence felt less like isolation and more like a vacuum, slowly suffocating him.
He shouldn't have accepted the resignation of his trusted aide. But then again, at the time, he had no desire to hold back Rowan. He had a look in his eyes that Aurelian had never seen before.
And that look would've led Aurelian to nowhere if he had acted stubborn.
Suddenly, as Aurelian was deep in his own sentimental state, a sound echoed over the room.
